— I can't go there tonight, Billy. Mr. Tate is angry with me. Very, very angry. And I'm afraid he might — She halted and stared at the mist, which coiled at her feet like grasping hands. — Oh, God, Billy, — she whispered. — I'm so tired. What am I going to do with her? —
— I know a place you could take her, — he said. — A secret place. But you can't tell anyone about it. —
Dawn had not yet lifted the darkness when Wall-eyed Jack harnessed his horse and climbed up onto the buckboard. He guided the dray out of the stable yard and onto icy cobblestones that gleamed like glass under the lamplight. At this hour, his was the only wagon on the street, and the clip-clop of the horse's hooves, the rattle of the wheels, were unnervingly noisy in the otherwise silent street. Those stirring awake in their beds, hearing the rattle of his wagon rolling past, would assume it was just a tradesman passing by. A butcher hauling carcasses to market, perhaps, or the mason with his stones, or the farmer delivering bales of hay to the stableman. It would not occur to those drowsy people in their warm beds what sort of cargo would soon be loaded onto the wagon that now rolled past their windows. The living had no wish to dwell on the dead, and so the dead were invisible, nailed into pine boxes, sewn into shrouds, moved furtively on rattling carts under cover of night. What no one else has the stomach for, here I am, thought Jack with a grim smile. Oh, there was money to be made in the snatching trade. The clop of the horse's hooves pounded out the poetry of those words again and again as his dray rolled northwest, toward the Charles River.
There's money to be made. There's money to be made.
And that's where you'd find Jack Burke.
In the fog ahead, a crouching figure suddenly materialized right in front of the horse. Jack pulled up sharply on the reins and the horse halted with a snort. A teenage boy scampered into view, zigzagging back and forth in the street, long arms waving like octopus tentacles.
— Bad pup! Bad pup, you come to me now! —
The dog gave a yelp as the boy pounced and grabbed him around the neck. Straightening, the struggling dog now firmly in his grip, the boy stared wide-eyed as he suddenly saw Jack glaring at him through the mist.
— You damn half-wit, Billy! — snapped Jack. Oh, he knew this boy well enough, and what a nuisance he was, always underfoot, always searching for a free meal, a place to bed down. More than once, Jack had had to chase Dim Billy out of his own stable yard. — Get outta the road! I could've run right over you. —
The boy just gaped at him. He had a mouthful of crooked teeth and a head too small for his gangly teenage body. He grinned stupidly, the mutt struggling in his arms. — He doesn't always come when I call. He needs to behave. —
— Can't even look after yourself, and you got a damn dog? —
— He's my friend. His name's Spot. —
Jack eyed the black mutt, who as far as he could see had no spots anywhere. — Now, there's a right clever name I've never heard before. —
— We're out lookin' for a bit o' milk. Babies need milk, y'know, and she drank up all I got for her last night. She'll be hungry this morning, and when they get hungry, they cry. —
What was the fool boy babbling about? — Get outta my way, — said Jack. — I got business to attend to. —
— All right, Mr. Burke! — The boy moved aside to let the horse pass. — I'm gonna get myself some business, too. —
Sure ya will, Billy. Sure ya will. Jack snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. The horse took only a few paces before Jack abruptly pulled him to a stop. He turned to look back at Billy's spindly figure, half hidden in the mist. Though the boy had to be sixteen or seventeen, he was only bones and sinew, about as sturdy as some clackety wooden puppet. Still, he'd be an extra pair of hands.
And he'd be cheap.
— Hey, Billy! — Jack called. — You want to earn a ninepence? —
The boy hurried up to him, arms still in a stranglehold around his unfortunate pet. — What for, Mr. Burke? —
— Leave the dog and climb in. —
— But we need to find milk. —
— You want your ninepence or what? You can buy milk with it. —
Billy dropped the dog, who immediately trotted away. — You go home now! — Billy ordered it. — That's right, Spot! —
— Get in, boy. —
Billy scrabbled aboard the dray and settled his bony arse on the buckboard. — Where are we going? —
Jack snapped the reins. — You'll see. —
They rolled through drifting fingers of mist, past buildings where candlelight was starting to appear in windows. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the only noise was the horse's hooves and the sound of their wheels, rumbling down the narrow street.
Billy glanced back at the wagon. — What's under the tarp, Mr. Burke? —
— Nothing. —
— But there's somethin' there. I can see it. —
— You want your ninepence, then shut up. —
— All right. — The boy was silent for about five seconds. — When do I get it? —
— After you help me move something. —
— Like furniture? —
— Yeah. — Jack spat onto the street. — Just like furniture. —
They were almost to the Charles River now, rattling up North Allen Street. Daylight was gaining on them, but the fog still hung thick. As he neared his destination, it seemed to swirl ever closer, drifting in off the river to wrap them in its protective cloak. When at last they pulled to a stop, Jack could not see more than a few yards ahead of him, but he knew exactly where he was.
So did Billy. — Why are we at the hospital? —
— Wait here, — Jack ordered the boy. He jumped off the dray, his boots landing hard on the stones.
— When do we move the furniture? —
— Gotta see if it's here first. — Jack swung open the gate and walked into the hospital's rear courtyard. He needed to go only a few paces before he spotted what he'd been hoping to find: a coffin, with the lid newly nailed on. The name A. TATE had been scrawled on it. He lifted one end to test the weight, and confirmed that, yes, it was occupied and would soon be on its way. To potter's field, no doubt, judging by the rough pine.
He got to work prying up the lid. It did not take long, for there were only a few nails. No one cared if a pauper was properly secured in his coffin. He pulled off the lid, revealing the shrouded body within. Not so large, from the looks of it; even without Dim Billy, he could have dealt with this one.
He returned to the dray, where the boy was still waiting.
— Is it a chair? A table? — asked Billy.
— What're you babbling about? —
— The furniture. —
Jack went around to the wagon and whisked off the tarp. — Help me move this. —
Billy slithered off the buckboard and came around to the rear. — It's a log. —
— You are so clever. — Jack grabbed one end and dragged it from the wagon.
— Is it firewood? — asked Billy, grabbing the other end. — Don't it need to be split? —
— Just move it, eh? — They carried the log to the coffin and set it down. — Now help me lift this out, — Jack ordered.
Billy took one look into the coffin and froze. — There's somebody in there. —
— Come on, pick up that end. —
— But it it's someone dead. —
— You want your ninepence or not? —
Billy looked up at him, eyes enormous in the wan and skinny face. — I'm afraid o' dead people. —
— They can't hurt you, idiot. —
The boy backed away. — They come after you. The ghosts do. —
— Ain't never seen a ghost. —
The boy was still retreating, moving toward the gate.